


Winter's Knight

by Rhoda_Writes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Dreamsharing, F/M, Gen, Het and Slash, M/M, Mind Control, Swords & Sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-08-10 19:24:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 10,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7858015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhoda_Writes/pseuds/Rhoda_Writes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had an idea to re-imagine "The Winter Soldier" in a medieval, sword-and-sorcery setting. When I started writing it, things got . . . weird. This is what happened instead.</p><p>FYI: Because of the setting and time period, some of the names are a bit different but they shouldn't be hard to figure out. (If it's hard to figure out, let me know and I'll post a guideline/glossary somewhere.) SPOILERS up through the events of "Civil War."</p><p>Hope you guys like it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Cottage

The company had been hunting for two weeks. Their enemy was devious, and clever, but they were after all only human. Sir Stefan and his knights would find them all one way or another. The Hydra militants had stolen magic from the gods. It was the greatest crime imaginable under King Thaddeus's rule. He had brought all his subjects peace and prosperity, but at a price. Magic was forbidden. Monstrous. Unforgivable. He considered it blasphemy for ordinary folk to aspire to become equal to the gods.

Of course, the way Hydra had used their newfound power only proved Thaddeus's wisdom. The warmongers had created monsters, twisted the minds of decent people, and cut scars into the face of the world with their battles and bloodshed. Their lust for power had sown only destruction and death. There were other, more responsible wielders of magic, but Thaddeus could not see the difference. He forbade its use without exception. Anyone found disobeying his edict would be hunted down and imprisoned. Or worse.

Hydra had only one stronghold left to be searched, and Stefan was leading his best fighters on what he hoped would be their last mission. Their enemy hid well, sometimes concealing their whereabouts with illusions, but Stefan's newest recruit had a way of seeing past them. Rather, the girl who _had_ been his newest recruit. Wanda Maximoff had fled the company after Thaddeus passed his ruling. He offered her the chance to continue training as a knight errant, only stripped of her power. She had chosen banishment. Stefan couldn't blame her. He hoped she was happy with her choice, and safe, wherever she had disappeared to.

Stefan believed magic could be used for good when controlled, but he understood better than most how dangerous it could be. Hydra was a threat for a different reason. They were scattered across every kingdom and tucked inside every branch of government. Even now, one of their slithering spies could be whispering into the king's ear. The thought sickened him, almost as much as Thaddeus's refusal to hear an alternative to outlawing magic. Still, he could not fight an enemy he could not see. This hidden fortress in the North--that, he could see. And he could destroy it.

It looked like a humble stone cottage half-buried in the snow. A few bare trees clustered around the cottage entrance, like a twisted rib-cage housing a stone heart. Stefan knew better. The bulk of Hydra's stronghold was buried under the ice and snow. They would have to enter and descend to find whatever stolen relic they'd hidden in this one.

Stefan scouted ahead, sword not yet drawn, but shield ready. The cottage appeared unguarded. It was never that easy. No visible guards could mean a trap. Or an ambush. Or an enemy so uniquely powerful it did not need the help of guards. He signaled to Natasha, who was trailing a few meters behind him. She nodded and shimmied up one of the nearer trees. Stefan watched until he could no longer see her. He was still amazed at how she managed to do that, make herself invisible despite the shock of fiery hair that should have been a beacon in this frozen landscape. It was not for nothing that she had become Thaddeus's most prized assassin. Any threat Stefan did not see, she would dispatch for him.

They were almost on top of the cottage now. One more step, and they would cross the tree line. Three of his best knights, including Rumlow, flanked Stefan from the back. Two dozen more, plus Natasha and two more with crossbows in the trees, steeled themselves for whatever was ahead. Nothing could have prepared Stefan for what eventually emerged from the snow-dusted doorway.

A hooded figure in red, with long chestnut hair and milk white skin, drifted towards them. The hood shadowed her face, but the two gleaming red eyes inside that shadow gave her away. It was the Scarlet Witch. It was Wanda.

"Stay close," Stefan instructed his men. He edged forward past the trees. "Wanda. Why are you here?"

"I think you know, Sir Stefan." Her voice was low and melodious, belying her youth.

"It saddens me to see you throw your lot in with these people. They will betray you in the end."

"Come no closer. You will not like what you see." She had stopped as well. Despite the threat implied by her words, her tone was pleading.

"You know I can't do that, Wanda," said Stefan. "Surrender to us, now, and I will convince the King to be lenient with you."

Wanda laughed. The sound cut through the stillness of the woods like a razor. "As he has with you? Oh, I doubt his sense of compassion extends to me. And I doubt I would appreciate what passes for leniency in your court. No, Stefan. You must turn back now. I will not warn you another--"

The arrow flew before she could finish. But Wanda was fast; her hands flew up, summoning a wreath of crimson energy that shattered the arrow before it reached her.

It was a good shot. But now Natasha had given away her position. Stefan did not want to engage Wanda in combat; he'd seen her in action before, and knew they would almost certainly lose. She'd given them fair warning. There was no way to avoid a fight now. Swords rang as the knights loosed them from their scabbards. More arrows rained down from the trees. Wanda sent a wave of her power into the tree tops. All the shooters fell but Natasha, who leapt out of the way at the last instant.

Stefan wished the Hawk had joined them on this venture. When they had first met Wanda, he was the only one of their company who had outmaneuvered her. It would have helped to have his sharp reflexes at their disposal now.

Rumlow rushed toward the girl, sword raised. He was the strongest fighter in their mix apart from Stefan himself. Rumlow had the strength, speed and ruthlessness that Thaddeus required in all his knights, with an added streak of cruelty that made him a dangerous asset. When Stefan did not have the stomach to make a kill, Rumlow would do it for him.

He never reached her.

Wanda's hands were already up when the sword arced down. She wove a glowing shield between them, and Rumlow's sword crashed into it uselessly. Not pausing for breath, she thrust her palms outward, and a blast of red light erupted over Stefan's entire company. Stefan crouched low behind his shield to avoid the surge as every man and woman was knocked to the ground. They stayed down.

Stefan stood and flung his shield at the Scarlet Witch. She saw it coming a fraction of a second too late, and let out a gasp before dropping into the snow, unconscious. The shield made a wide arc before returning to Stefan's waiting arm.

Natasha appeared at the treeline as Stefan approached Wanda's prone figure. She must have taken similar precautions when Wanda sent out her shockwave. Neither of them had prepared for this. "Risky move, soldier," she chided.

No one else had guessed that Stefan's shield was enchanted to return to him, and only him, after he'd thrown it like that. He only used it at the direst need.

"But a necessary one," he answered. "Is anyone else still standing?"

"No one. We were all inside her blast radius. I hid behind a tree," she added, anticipating his next question.

The Scarlet Witch seemed so vulnerable, so harmless, lying there in the white bank with her dark hair spilling out of the cloak underneath her. She was still so young. Stefan had hoped to keep her at the castle as his protégée, but Thaddeus wouldn't hear of it. Not when he'd learned of Wanda's strange gifts.

Stefan shook his head. "We never should have come here," he said. "If Hydra has recruited any more of our old allies. . ."

"I know," said Natasha. "We'll be outmatched."

Stefan knelt next to Wanda's limp form. He would not have wanted this brutal life for her. What was so terrible about magic anyway? Was it really so wrong to unlock some of the secrets of the preternatural world, if one could use them for good?

Wait. Something was wrong here. Wanda's hair, along with her bright red cloak and gloves, were entirely clean of snow. Not a single flake clung to her, not even where she was touching the bank. Stefan reached out to touch her wrist. Her hand dissolved at the contact, shimmering away in a breaking illusion that followed quickly up the rest of her until there was nothing left.

"That's not possible."

Was that fear he heard in Natasha's voice? He couldn't blame her, fearless as she was, if she was thinking along the same lines as he. They had seen an illusion like this one before. Just as lifelike, just as disquieting. But not for a long time. Not since. . .

"He was killed," Natasha insisted. "A body was found at the battleground. I checked that record myself, just to be sure. He's dead, Stefan. We know it."

"Do we?"

There was no time to unravel this now. They had a mission. Stefan stood, dusted his hands off, and strapped his shield to his back. "They'll be waking up soon. I'm going inside. I'll find out what I can. If I don't return in an hour, send a team of four after me. Keep this door guarded."

Natasha nodded. "And what about her?" she asked, nodding at the empty space where the Wanda-shaped illusion had lain. "Shall I tell them the truth?"

"No. Say that she ran after she sent out that shockwave. You and I returned after she eluded us, and I went inside to look for clues. We will give the full story to Lord Fury--and _only_ Lord Fury--when we return to the palace."

"Understood."

Something more devious was at work here. Stefan could not doubt the evidence of his own eyes. And his eyes told him that whoever had created this false image of Wanda had powers identical to a foe they had defeated some years ago. A man who was not really a man, but much more. News of his death had drifted from his homeland in the East some months back. Thaddeus had called for celebration. No one doubted that their greatest enemy had finally been slain. But should they have? After all, what could truly kill a god?


	2. The Woven Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback chapter. There will be a few of these intermittently until I'm caught up to the "present." Also, I lost this and the next three chapters in a computer crash (GAH!!!) so I had to rewrite this from scratch. I think I got it back to what I had before, but we'll see. Hope you enjoy it!

_Ten years ago. . ._

The day had finally come. After months of training, sparring, and endless letters to and from Captain Maria Hill, leader of the royal guard herself, James was finally shipping off to join the king's army. It was one thing to receive the congratulatory notice from the town messenger. It was quite another to be outfitted for armor and given his own sword, forged by the royal smithy, with his own family's crest woven into the hilt. It made everything real.

This called for a celebration. And a long, bitter goodbye. It was time to visit the cave.

Stefan had discovered it, tucked into the roots of an ancient oak tree at the base of the mountain range that marked the edge of their village. The great gnarled branches were just thick enough, and far enough apart, that it was very difficult to see in, but rather cozy inside. Over the years, they had brought furred blankets, canteens of water, candles, and a pack of paper to leave each other messages when they couldn't meet. Since the pair had shared a home for the past three years, it hardly seemed necessary anymore.

But this was a special occasion. They brought wine, cheese, apples, and hardly ate any of it. The wine went first. Then they quickly shed their clothes and fell into each others' arms on one of the furs. They had made love countless times before, but tonight was different. James took Stefan's face tenderly, caressing the counters of his lips and jaw and running his hands over his hair. He wanted to memorize every curve and imperfection. Stefan, on the other hand, seemed determined to devour him. He nipped James's skin with his teeth, pushed him hard against the cave floor, and drove his fingernails into James's shoulders almost enough to draw blood.

James understood. He didn't mind. It was going to be a long time before they saw each other again. And the war cast a heavy shadow over all things. Their moment was over all too quickly. They cleaned themselves with water from one of the canteens, and laid back against the fur in a tangle of limbs and sweat.

"Don't go to war tomorrow," Stefan murmured, curled against James’s chest. "Stay here in this cave, with me."

James smiled into his hair. "All right."

"I mean it," Stefan insisted. "Or else let me come with you."

So it was to be this conversation again. James sighed. "Don't do this. Please.”

Ever since he had learned of James’s impending departure, Stefan had become increasingly distant. Not physically--they stayed near each other as always--but emotionally. It was a combination of things. Nerves. Fear. Envy, more likely than not. Even as children, James had always been the stronger of the two. When the hulking cowards of the village came to hurt Stefan, James was always there to run them off. And even without the bullies, Stefan had been a sickly youth. He had to fight for breath, and many nights James had stayed up with him begging the gods not to take him. “Not tonight,” he had whispered, clutching Stefan’s hand and watching his narrow chest rise and fall. “Please, not tonight.” And so far, they had complied.

“I just feel so useless,” Stefan told him. “Thaddeus has so many volunteers. Why you?”

Behind the plea was another: “Why not me?” James had known Stefan too long, and too well, not to hear that.

“You know why,” said James, answering both questions. “This threat affects everyone. This . . . creature, the thing calling itself the Red Skull, will find its way to us whether we choose to get involved or not. I won’t let that happen.” James sat up and took Stefan’s face in both hands. “I wish you could go with me, but it is my duty. To this country and everyone in it. I can’t stand by and watch this destruction from a distance, much as I’d like to. I have to go out there and do my part to protect those I love.”

“And who’s going to protect you, James?”

Before he could respond, Stefan wriggled out of James’s arms. For a moment, James was afraid he’d gone too far somehow. Stefan was hyper aware of his own weakness, and resented it being pointed out even with kindness. But no: Stefan was only digging for something in his satchel. He came back with a tiny, shiny object about the size of a coin. He held it out to James and dropped it into his open palm.

It was heavier than it looked. Thin, reddish coppery wires looped around and around in an intricate design, forming the shape of a heart. One loop at the top was tied to a thin black cord.

“It’s called a woven heart,” said Stefan. “They say that if you give it to the one you love most, they will always find their way back to you.” After a pause, he added, “It’s a sort of protection charm.”

James stared at him. “A charm?” Such things were illegal. Thaddeus had outlawed magic in any form.

“It’s just a superstition,” Stefan said quickly. “If you believe such things. I made it at the shop.”

Shortly before James announced he was joining Thaddeus’s army, Stefan had also taken up a vocation at a metal works shop in the village. It was mostly clerical work, keeping track of the customers and making sure special orders were seen to by the smiths. But Stefan had an artist’s eye. He may not have been strong, but he could find ways to twist and bend harsh materials into things of beauty. This woven heart was a tender example.

James wasted no time putting it on. The charm rested just below the hollow of his throat. It had clearly been made for him.

Stefan watched him with anxious, vigilant eyes. “Just promise me you’ll come back,” he said. “And write to me.”

“Of course I will. Every day.” James kissed him soundly on the forehead. “I’ll be back before you even begin to miss me. You’ll see.”


	3. The Invisible Witch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's what happened after "Sir Stefan" left the cottage in chapter one. I've started to realize Wanda is kinda my Mary Sue in this universe. Because I basically which I had all her powers and her awesome red jacket. Whoops. Hope it's still enjoyable despite that.

Wanda saw the shield fly seconds before it landed. There wasn’t enough time to react. It struck hard enough to knock her down . . . but she never reached the ground. Slender, wiry arms snatched her out of the way. One hand flicked out to weave an illusion in her place. It was jarring to see her own prone figure lying apparently lifeless against the snow, through a veil of magic that shimmered green at the edges. He had turned her invisible, just like him. The shift was seamless. Until the Captain reached down to the touch the false witch. The spell evaporated then and there.

They stayed hidden until the Captain and his compatriots left the woods, camouflaged as just another tree in the snowy wilderness.

After what felt like an eternity, Wanda breathed, sagging against her rescuer. Her knees buckled. She hadn’t expected it to hurt so much. She hadn’t expected the Captain to move against her at all. Her vision was blurring. She moaned in pain.

“Shh,” hissed Loki, tightening his grip on her wrist. “Wait.”

“They’ve gone, Your Highness,” she admonished him, somewhat spitefully. “You’re getting more paranoid.” She shook him off and staggered back to the place in the snow bank where she had “fallen.” Not even a depression in the snow marked the occasion. She might as well have never been there at all. It was just as well. The Captain would think the whole encounter had been an illusion. If they were lucky.

“There’s a fault in that trick of yours,” she said. “When someone touches one of these images, it disappears.”

“I’m well aware of that, thank you,” growled the displaced god. He was staring into the trees, his dark eyes searching and anxious. He was still waiting for them to come back. “I warned you, didn’t I? How many times did I tell you not to speak to him? I knew he would attack you. I hope you’re happy.”

“And _I_ said he would find a way to stop me without hurting me.” She touched the tender spot on her forehead where the shield had connected. “At least not much.”

The trickster’s scowl softened. He approached her and reached out gingerly, as if afraid to actually touch her. “ _Did_ he hurt you?”

Wanda dabbed at her head with her fingertips. There was no blood, and not all that much pain. The blow had surprised her more than anything. “It won’t last,” she said.

“It shouldn’t have happened at all.”

“I’m all right,” Wanda insisted. She took both his hands in hers. “Really. But you should be more careful. You’ve given yourself away now--they’ know you’re still alive, and working with me. There will be no more hiding after this.”

His jaw clenched, but he nodded. It was useless to argue. It was only a matter of time now before the creature he had escaped by faking his death caught his scent again. He eyed the stone cottage. “Our hiding places are shrinking anyway.” He sighed. “I can’t decide what’s more humiliating: being discovered by the Captain, or him assuming we’re in league with those worms in Hydra.”

Wanda almost laughed. That was the thing about Loki. In his self-centered melodramatics, he couldn’t see the difference between a simple misunderstanding and a true life-and-death threat. Everything was epic in scale, a tragedy to make the skies weep and the mountains crumble.

“Is something funny, little witch?” he asked.

“You,” Wanda admitted. She should have known he was better at reading her face by now. “This is not an insurmountable problem, Your Highness.” He grimaced and paced away from her. “It isn’t! We simply need to rethink our strategy. That’s all. For all we know, placing the blame for this adventure on Hydra could work in our favor.” She went after him and put a hand on his shoulder. He stilled at her touch. His fury was already ebbing away. It had taken time, but she was becoming adept at calming the beast.

Fresh snow began to fall around them. Tiny flakes nestled in their hair, and on Wanda’s gloves, and in the furred collar of Loki’s cloak. The world out here in the snow and woods seemed so quiet, and peaceful. If a person stayed in this white, cold paradise, they could forget the war raging outside.

Wanda moved around to face him, slid her hand down his arm and twined her fingers through his. “How long before you trust me, Loki? Everything will work out just like we planned. I promise.”

He smiled, but it was a strained, distant expression. “Would that I had your optimism.”

“I’m not optimistic. I’m . . . determined. We still have work to do.”

“Mm.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I do enjoy your ruthlessness.” He bent down and kissed her. He tasted like snow and the crackle of dark magic. “Very well. Let them believe Hydra is behind all our machinations. Let them think we allied ourselves with the many-headed beast and took their old strongholds as ours. It makes sense, in a way. The Captain finding us when he was looking for them. Why not continue the charade a while longer?”

“Unless. . .”

Loki frowned, inquisitive. “Unless?”

“The Captain. I don’t think he was looking for Hydra. I’ve been inside his head, remember. He’s looking for _him_.”

It took a moment, but understanding bloomed behind Loki’s shrewd eyes. “Barnes. You think so?”

“Absolutely. And as far as I know—”

“No one has been able to find him. And if we can reach him first. . .”

“The Captain will come to us, begging.” Wanda smiled. “I don’t know how long it will take, but it will work. That man is his only weakness. I’ve seen it.” If compassion for a loved one counted as “weakness,” Wanda added to herself.

She only needed to get Loki’s wheel’s turning. His innate treachery and penchant for slippery plans would do the rest. She only had one goal, and they were getting ever closer to achieving it. All she had to do was keep Loki’s compliance in bringing them into Thaddeus’s court. Then she could finally face the man who had destroyed her family and irrevocably changed her life. The one who called himself the Alchemist.


	4. A Disappearance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stefan and Natasha return to the castle grounds to deliver the news to Lord Fury. But Lord Fury is not there. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last of the chapters I had to rewrite after the compy-crash earlier this year. It's a fresh start from here onward!

_My Dearest Stefan,_

_It is raining here. It began six weeks back and hasn’t stopped once. As both tracking and fighting are immensely difficult in these conditions, the company has found alternative ways to pass the time. By which I mean the ale has been flowing more liberally lately. Not that I blame them. I’m as guilty as anyone, for the drink chases away the chill in my bones. You know I cannot tell you where we are, in case this letter falls into the wrong hands, but it is bitterly cold here. I only hope our enemy does not think to take advantage of our slowed reflexes. Let us be merry while we can._

_Despite the damp, and the cold, I admire the wildness of this place. I wish you could see it, Stefan. Sheets of ice stretch between mountain ranges like mirrored glass. The snow comes into our boots and soaks our feet when we march. But there are somehow still patches of green, and life, the stubborn elegance of it, all around us. One day, when the blood and ash of this war have been swept clean, I will bring you here. You would see the savage beauty in it as I do. I wonder what piece of it you might capture in one of your drawings._

_I miss you terribly. The thought that each passing night brings me closer to returning home to you helps me greet each gray, sunless morning. I am forever grateful for the trinket you gave me. Although I know there is no magic in it, it comforts me to keep a piece of you always close to my heart. Have courage, my love. We will see each other again soon._

_With all my heart,_

_James._

The letter had been read, refolded, and handled so often that the words had faded nearly to illegibility. The lamplight in Stefan’s comfortable but narrow quarters was weak, and made it even more difficult to make out, but he didn’t need it. He had memorized every turn of phrase, every loop and curve of his beloved’s handwriting. Still he took it out and reread it faithfully every day, just as he had every day since it first arrived nearly seven years ago. It was the last anyone had heard of the man called James Barnes. Before Hydra had overtaken his encampment. The lucky ones were killed. But James’s body was never found.

He had written of a frozen, wild country. As their path tracking Hydra had led further North, Stefan had insisted more often on leading the company. Natasha probably suspected his true motive, but he trusted her with his secrets. Not that Stefan’s partnership with James was anything but common knowledge--everyone knew that. But insinuating himself into these missions with a different agenda would have been frowned upon, if King Thaddeus knew of it.

This last foray to the so-called cottage had been his last hope. Instead of James, he had found Wanda, and lost another dear friend to the enemy. Stefan pressed the letter to his lips, and squeezed his eyes against the threatening bout of tears.

A soft noise at the door interrupted his thoughts. He took a moment to tuck the letter into his pocket, arrange his face into the travel-worn but capable expression he showed the outer world, and turned to the threshold.

It was Natasha. He appreciated her letting him know she was there. She could have easily come up soundlessly if she wanted.

“Ready to report, sir?” she asked.

“Much as I can be, I suppose.” He gave her a soft smile for her discretion. They had agreed to take a few moments to refresh themselves after the journey, then meet with Lord Fury and tell him what had happened with Wanda. Stefan had lingered longer than he meant to.

This time of day, Lord Fury was most likely in the practice ring training a new batch of knights. It was comforting to imagine. At the rate their enemies were multiplying, they would need all the battle-ready soldiers they could get. The ring was a sand-swept clearing in the center of the castle grounds, usually filled with the sounds of clacking wooden swords, tramping feet still unused to the weight of armor, and the occasional swear of frustration as the soldiers in training learned how to spar successfully against Captain Maria Hill. She’d be among them, pairing off sparring partners, uttering instructions like, “Shoulders back,” or “Watch your footing,” or “Mind the arms--present a smaller target.”

It took a few minutes on foot, navigating the endless corridors of the castles. Captain Hill was there, back straight and jaw set as ever, her dark hair braided back to keep it out of the way. She looked up when Stefan and Natasha appeared, nodded, and motioned for one of the senior officers to take over.

“I’ve been expecting you,” she said without waiting for an explanation. “Tell me about Wanda.”

Stefan was taken aback. “Actually, we were hoping to talk to Lord Fury.”

“Later.” She pointed to one of the peripheral rooms that ringed the practice area and led them inside. “Lord Fury is occupied elsewhere at the moment. I want an explanation. Be as detailed as possible.”

“Wanda was alone,” said Natasha. “She tried to warn us away before any fighting could break out.”

“I hope you aren’t trying to make excuses. I don’t have much patience for traitors.” Hill spat out the last word like poison.

Natasha stiffened. She crossed her arms and planted her feet. “Neither do I, but you haven’t let me finish.”

That earned her a raised eyebrow.

With a fleeting glance at Stefan, who inclined his head for her to continue, Natasha said, “The Wanda we saw was an illusion. A powerful mirage that could mimic her shape, her voice, even her powers.”

“An illusion?” The slight tremor in Hill’s voice betrayed her otherwise composed posture.

“Yes. Just like Loki’s.”

“But that’s impossible.”

“We thought so too at first,” said Stefan, “but I have seen his magic up close. There’s no mistake. And Captain, if Loki is still alive, the only way he would know how to imitate Wanda that perfectly is if he met her. She was not with us the last time we encountered him.”

Hill took the information in stride, nodding thoughtfully and fighting to keep her composure. A muscle twitched in her jaw, but there was no other indication of her distress. “That . . . complicates things.”

Natasha tilted her head. Stefan could practically see the wheels spinning in her mind. “What else happened while we were away?” she asked.

After a quick look at the doorway, to make sure it was still empty, Hill lowered her voice and answered: “It’s Fury. He isn’t occupied, he’s. . .”

A lump settled in the pit of Stefan’s stomach. No. What else could go wrong now? “He’s what?”

“Missing,” said Hill. “No one has seen him in days. Even when he keeps to himself, he usually keeps me informed. It isn’t like him.” She locked eyes on each of them in turn. “Speak of this to no one.”

They assured her they wouldn’t. With Lord Fury gone, it would be difficult to know whom to trust. Especially in the court.

“Meanwhile,” Hill continued, “you have another problem.” She directed this at Stefan.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The alchemist. He’s asking for you.”

Stefan frowned. “For me? Why?”

“I don’t know, but he’s refusing to speak to anyone else.” Hill gestured toward the door. “Come find me after we finish. He’s become . . . eccentric lately. I’ll need to prepare you first.”

On that cryptic note, Captain Hill blended seamlessly back into her training routine. Stefan wondered what that was like. To be able to switch back and forth with such apparent ease. That was another technique he’d never mastered: telling his emotions when to come forward, and when to stay behind.

Natasha laid a hand on his arm. “Sir Stefan, I know there are no other old Hydra bases in the North, but--”

“Don’t,” he cut her off. “Please. I know there’s no hope left. I’d just rather not hear it said aloud quite yet.”

She smiled. “I was only going to say that I have faith in you. If he is still alive, you’ll find him. And I will help you. Whatever it takes.”


	5. The Alchemist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet the Alchemist. Also--foreshadowing! Longer chapter than usual. Sometimes my chapter lengths are random. Will try to post more regularly from here on out. See end notes for more stuff.

Captain Hill led Natasha and Stefan through the corridors of the castle. The courtiers, pages and servants thinned out as they went. The air grew musty, and dust began to show more thickly on the floors, unused to the steady procession of feet. The alchemist’s workshop was in a tall tower reachable only via a narrow winding staircase which was itself located in an obscure corner of the southeast wing, long abandoned by most of Thaddeus’s court. The alchemist liked his privacy.

“I should warn you,” said Hill, “his behavior has become erratic. Unpredictable.”

“Violent?” asked Stefan.

“Not so far. But he gets confused. Forgets where he is. He seems lost in his own mind.”

“How terrible,” said Natasha, a stony look on her face. She had been “lost in her mind” before, prior to her induction into the royal guard. She never spoke of her time in the Red Room--the gruesome academy where she had grown up--except to confess that she still had nightmares sometimes. Stefan could only guess at the inner demons she battled quietly every day.

What demons did the alchemist have to conquer, he wondered? And why had he demanded Stefan’s counsel?

At long last, they came to the end of the final corridor. A door stood barred with thick bands of iron, and no less than six heavy sliding bolts.

Stefan frowned at the excessive barricade. “Tell me, Hill, when did we begin locking up our own people like common prisoners?”

Hill shot him a bemused look. “He requested it.”

“He requested to be shut up behind a door that locks from the outside?” asked Natasha, voicing the shock and disbelief that Stefan was feeling.

“As I said--he’s been different.” Hill slid back the bolts one at a time, then wrenched the door open. “There is a rope just inside. Pull it when you’ve finished, and either myself or one of the servants will come to let you out.”

Her words took a moment to sink in. Then the dark maw beyond the threshold suddenly seemed ominous. The phrase “belly of the beast” ran through Stefan’s mind. Of course that was ridiculous, as he would be following the stairs up, not down.

“Am I to be locked in?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. He prided himself on never showing fear. He hoped the question came across as commanding, not fearful.

Hill smiled sympathetically; nothing fooled her. “Unless you can persuade him to recant his request, yes. Don’t worry. We won’t be far.”

Stefan nodded. Very well, then. If this was the game he had to play to get answers, he would play it. He took one resolute step into the darkness before a hand on his arm stopped him: Natasha.

“Be careful,” she said. “He may not be able to tell friend from foe.” Her inscrutable eyes carried a further warning. She had learned that lesson all too well, and from both sides.

“On one condition,” said Stefan. “Take some rest. I can’t have you run ragged if our old enemy is back.”

Natasha brushed off his order with a sigh. “You do the same. Even you need to sleep some time.”

Stefan laughed, and almost made a joke about his preternatural ability to go without sleep, but remembered in time that Hill was watching. They made their temporary goodbyes, and Stefan was left alone with the darkness of the tower.

He began to ascend. The thin slats cut into the stone as windows let such little light in that it was practically dusk, despite the afternoon sun outside. No doubt this passage was black as ink in the nighttime. He didn’t know how the alchemist could tolerate it, let alone prefer it to the warmer, brighter workshop in the main grounds downstairs.

After some minutes of climbing, random bursts of white light began to play on the walls, accompanied by the sharp crack of lightning. Stefan took the final stairs slowly, edging around the curve of the tower to the alchemist’s workshop quite unprepared for the sight that awaited him.

An army of thick wooden tables had been arranged in an incomprehensible design around the floor. The angles made no sense, all lopsided and asymmetrical, and each was piled with instruments of some mysterious nature. Glass tubes that steamed with colorful liquids. Rods of metal fixed to spokes crackling with energy, and churning in a dizzying cartwheel. Spheres made of brass covered in so many delicate moving parts it made Stefan’s head ache to look at them.

On every flat surface were sheets of paper covered in calculations, sketches, blueprints, and on every _other_ flat surface were empty pewter mugs. The reek of stale whiskey mingled in the air with ozone, embalming fluid and smoke.

In the center of it all was the man himself, performing an elaborate dance among his inventions, pulling a lever here, measuring some unknown substance there, and jotting more notes down on his endless scraps of paper. His dark hair had grown almost to his collar, disheveled as if he couldn’t stop running his hands through it, and he needed a shave.

Stefan cleared his throat to announce his presence and stepped gingerly into the room. “Anthony, it’s me.”

The alchemist grunted something, but Stefan couldn’t tell if it was a response or he was just talking to himself. He tried again: “Hill said you wanted me.”

“Yes,” mumbled Anthony. “Indeed. My assistant seems to have gone missing.” He snatched a vial from one of his instruments and pressed it into Stefan’s hand before Stefan realized he had crossed the room. “Hold this a moment, I need to make some adjustments.” The thing gave off a smell something like a combination of copper and rotting fruit.

Stefan made a face and held it at arm’s length. “Your assistant?”

“Mm. Tall, red-faced fellow. Very erudite. Or was it green? No, no--the doctor’s the green one. It’s so easy to get those mixed up.” He continued to bustle around his equipment as he talked, evidently not expecting Stefan to answer.

Instead of trying to make sense of any of that, Stefan asked, “Why have you asked to be locked in?”

“What?”

“The locks. On the door to the tower. Hill said you asked for them.”

The alchemist paused in his work and looked at Stefan directly for the first time. “Oh, for goodness’ sake--the locks aren’t for _me_ , old man. They’re for the doctor.”

Stefan blinked. “The green-faced doctor?”

“Naturally. Mind you, he’s not always green. Only when he’s in a mood. But we can’t be too careful these days, can we?”

Hill hadn’t been exaggerating when she’d said Anthony was becoming “confused.”

“Anthony,” said Stefan, as patiently as he could, “there is no one else here. No doctor, green or otherwise. There is only you and me.”

But Anthony wasn’t listening. He was studying a drawing he’d pinned to the wall. The design looked like a metal automaton. After a moment of frowning and “Hm”-ing, he went back to one of his tables. On a raised platform was an iron gauntlet unlike any Stefan had seen before: sleek and polished, with a glove attached, and a flat, circular disk in the center of the palm. It was a wonder of meticulous craftsmanship.

Anthony cast his gaze over the table and snapped his fingers distractedly. “Where have I put that. . . Ah!” He raced back to Stefan and plucked the foul-smelling vial out of his hand. He took it back to the gauntlet and, after producing a pair of goggles and putting them on, began to pour the liquid over the metal. It hissed and steamed on contact, but the metal grew brighter, cleaner.

Stefan was impressed. Even in this state, his friend’s mind hadn’t lost its edge. If only he understood what Anthony was trying to accomplish.

“What is this project?” he asked, moving towards the sketch of the automaton. “Are you improving the armor for the royal guard?”

“Out of the way, old man!”

Stefan turned just in time to see Anthony swinging a great machete over his head. He scrambled backward. The blade connected with the still-hissing gauntlet, sending up an explosion of sparks and another splash of light on the walls. Before Stefan could catch his breath, Anthony had removed the goggles and was studying the gauntlet intently.

“Not there yet,” he concluded with a sigh. “But considering my assistant and my doctor have disappeared, and my equipment is several centuries out of date, it will have to do. It’s just a matter of time.” He deposited the goggles and now-empty vial on the table next to the gauntlet, swept a sheaf of papers off one of the chairs scattered haphazardly about, and sat down. “That’s what this project is about: time. There’s something the matter with time.”

Stefan frowned, and found another seat for himself. “Why do you say that?”

“Can’t you feel it? It’s as if. . .” Anthony tapped his fingers against his chest, tapping out a rhythm only he could decipher. “I can’t say exactly. But something’s missing.”

Stefan watched him helplessly, wishing he could understand. “Listen, Tony, I--”

“Yes!” The other man leapt up, eyes blazing, and seized Stefan by both arms. “That’s it! That’s what you used to call me. Not Anthony or the Alchemist or any of the other names they’ve attached to me here. It’s all wrong. I’m _Tony_. You sense it too, don’t you?”

Stefan pulled back, alarmed, but Anthony held him fast. “I. . . You prefer Tony?”

“No! I mean, yes, of course, but that’s not the point.” He released him and went back to pacing the length of the workshop, gesturing wildly as he walked. “There was another name I had for you as well, apart from Stefan.”

“You called me 'old man’ earlier,” Stefan offered. “Which I thought was odd, seeing as you’re at least ten years older than I am.”

“No, no--that’s just an epithet. I have dozens of those for you. It’s about _time_ , my friend. Or memory, or. . .” He dug his hands through his hair. “Everything’s happening in the wrong order. I feel as if someone’s gone rummaging through my brain and put all the furniture back in a different spot while I wasn’t looking. It’s maddening.” With a heavy sigh, he slumped back into a chair--a different one this time--and rubbed wearily at his eyes. “Forgive me. I’m not myself today.”

How isolating it must be, to be trapped in this obscure corner of the castle and to feel one’s mind slipping away. Stefan’s heart went out to the poor man. And yet. . . Why _had_ Stefan called him “Tony” just now? Where had that come from? Stefan hadn’t gotten the jolt of recognition that his friend had, but it felt right to say it. Instinctive. Familiar. But why?

Stefan got up and carefully wove his way through the mess to a closer seat. “Anthony--Tony--I know you’re upset. I wish I could help you. I really do. But I can’t follow you.”

“Of course you can’t.”

“When did you last eat? Or sleep? Or have any human interaction at all, besides mine just now?”

Anthony dropped the hand from his face and mumbled something inaudible.

“Tony, look at me.”

He looked.

“Why did you send for me?”

He took his time answering. When he did, he spoke slowly and deliberately, choosing his words with the utmost care. “Because I fear that something happened between you and I that changed us. And not necessarily for the better. I can’t remember what.”

Stefan couldn’t remember either. Whatever it was that was supposed to have happened to them, it wouldn’t come to him. The only thing he couldn’t shake was the disturbing certainty that Tony was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewatched "Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows" to try to get RDJ's old timey "voice" right. I figure a Victorian Sherlock was close enough to how a pre-industrial Tony Stark might talk, even though it's not exact. Hopefully, I've accomplished that here. I had fun writing this.


	6. The One-Armed Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James wakes up in prison, short one of his limbs, and several memories. This is where he meets Zola . . . or a close facsimile thereof.

_Six Years Ago. . ._

Wakefulness came to James in bits and pieces. Sounds first. The steady drip of water. The nearby march of boots from somewhere above. The steely echo of a man-made chamber deep underground. The reek of stale sweat and human waste. And the cold. Always the cold. It was unforgiving, the way it seeped into the bones and wound its fingers through his insides. James couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt warm.

How long had he been in here? Where was “here?”

He cracked his eyes open. There was a little light, but he couldn’t tell where it was coming from. A perfectly square opening dominated his line of sight. A metal grate was affixed across it, to keep anyone from going through. No. Someone passed by on the other side. The boots walked directly across the “window” as if they were attached to the wall. It wasn’t a wall; it was a ceiling. James was below those marching feet he’d heard earlier. He hadn’t even realized he was lying down.

The rest of the royal army. What had happened to them? The last thing he remembered was spying from the top of a ridge, peering between the teeth of the mountain, to report back on what he could see of the enemy camp. A hundred feet down, the frozen lake shone like a bright, blue mirror--beautiful, but hard and brutal. The sun was shrouded by storm clouds. Just enough light played on the expanse below that James could make out the entrance of what looked like a crack in the ice. At his chosen angle, however, there was a sliver of metal, and cracks just a bit too precise under the surface. It was a fortress of some kind, hidden beneath the ice. After adjusting his spyglass, James had picked up a low tremor in the mountain, and then there was nothing.

He tried to push himself to his feet--and immediately rolled over, unbalanced. Confused, he tried to steady himself with his hands. Only something was wrong. Something was . . . missing. James turned, and looked down. He didn’t want to see, but he had to. In a way, he already knew. He’d had dreams like this before. Only it wasn’t a dream. Not anymore. His left arm, from the shoulder down, was gone. Sewed up as clean as a button hole. The sight made him gag, and he looked away.

Quickly, he reached up and felt for the metal heart that Stefan had made for him. His remaining hand closed around the familiar shape. He breathed. Stefan had said the charm would ensure James would come back to him safely. James didn’t know how much he believed in such things. But Stefan did. He believed enough for both of them. It wasn’t much, but maybe it would give him the strength he needed to see his way clear of this mess. He had to.

James lifted the charm to his lips and kissed it. “I’m coming home, Stefan,” he whispered. “I promise.”

The grate overhead rattled as another pack of Hydra soldiers marched by. James got up, balancing his weight more carefully this time, and stretched up to his full height.

“Hey!” he hollered. “You up there! I hope you realize the consequences of imprisoning a member of the royal army.” He hated to play that hand, but it was the only one he had.

It didn’t matter. The feet tramped on oblivious. Still, someone had to be listening. All prisoners, no matter how devious the enemy, were watched.

“I want to speak to whoever’s in charge,” James called. “To negotiate. You must want something, or you wouldn’t bother keeping me alive. Tell me what it is so I can tell you where to stick your demands.”

For half an hour, maybe longer, he scolded and shouted and threatened. No one responded. He may as well have been a ghost. He hooked his fingers into the grate overhead and rattled, but it wasn’t long before another militant strode by and nearly stomped on his hands.

“Hello!” he cried. “At least tell me what’s happened to my arm! You owe me that!”

“Why? Do you have an itch that needs scratching?”

James spun. The voice came not from overhead, but from behind him. A pale, shivering image hung in the bare cell. It had a face, small, indistinct, and framed by glasses, but sharp-eyed all the same. James had heard of illusions like this. They were the most treacherous sort of dark magic. The sorcerer stood in the comfort of his own conjuring space, and sent an echo of himself across great distances. Hydra was rumored to be full of dark magicians; they were the reason the king had outlawed magic, after all. But James had never seen it up close.

“That’s quite a temper you have,” said the apparition amiably. “Does your best beloved know about it?”

“Anyone who’s ever hurt him certainly does,” said James. “Who are you?”

“A concerned citizen.” The creature smiled. “Zola, if you must call me something. As to your arm, it was rather badly damaged in the fall. It had to come off.”

James frowned and cast his mind back. When had he fallen?

“Of course you won’t remember that. We’ve been . . . editing your memories ever so slightly. It would be terribly inconvenient if you were to keep your wits about you for too long.”

No. It made sense, now James was imagining it. The sudden blank spot in his mind that began at his stakeout above the lake, and did not go further. He should have realized he had either been induced into sleep, or someone was tampering with his memories. He lurched toward Zola, swinging his good arm. The image vanished like a ghost, only to reappear a moment later behind him again.

“Now really, what good will that do?” asked Zola. “Honestly, you ought to be saving your strength. You’ll need it for what we have planned for you.”

“I won’t break easily,” James warned him. “Whatever you’re after, you won’t get it. Not from me.”

Zola’s translucent features shifted, conveying something between confusion and amusement. “You think we mean to interrogate you? Goodness, you really aren’t at the top of your game. No, rest easy on that account, my friend. What we want from you is far simpler.” Zola gestured with a silvery hand. The grate overhead opened. “You are to be the first in a line of new, perfectly obedient, and immeasurably lethal, warriors. Cold, strong, and unbreakable as metal.” Gears ground together in the hallway above. A machine of some kind was being lowered into the cell. It was a narrow cage, just wide enough for a single occupant, equipped with sharp spikes pointed inward. In the spot where a left arm normally would go was a mechanical arm. It gleamed like silver.

“You should know that this process will be quite painful. The most effective binding magic always needs blood, and we will be using quite a bit of yours. Fortunately you won’t remember most of it. Probably.”

James barely heard Zola’s words. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from those spikes.

“It took some time to understand the problem,” Zola went on. “You people are far too loyal. Not to your king or country, but to each other. In order to break your ranks entirely, we need a new approach.” The illusion moved toward the cage and passed a hand over the opening. “We couldn’t fight you on our own. Not if we wanted to win. We needed you to fight one another. To fight the ones you love most.”

“I won’t,” said James, forcing the words out. “Whatever you to do to me, I will never turn on Stefan.”

“Ah, but that’s the beauty of it!” Zola’s voice rang with pride. “By the time you do see each other again, you won’t _be_ you anymore. You will be the Winter’s Knight. The first of many, I hope.”

James backed away, but found nothing but cold rock behind him, and a stubbornly solid wall.

“Please don’t struggle,” said Zola. “This will all be over soon. . .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad Rhoda! Don't abandon your stories! Hi, I'm back-ish. :) Took longer than I meant to getting this next one up. Also, I remembered about halfway through writing this that I didn't check the "graphic depictions of violence" box, so I had to scale back some of the grislier description I was going to use. Was a challenge, since I normally do horror. Hope it's still creepy enough without it!


	7. The Kitchen Maid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Wanda met Loki, and why they decided to work together.

_Two months ago. . ._

Loki the Deceiver was dead.

It was a night for revels. Hot, spiced wine sloshed out of overfull tankards and ran into the cracks between the tiles in the marbled floor. Torch light twisted and stretched along the gilded walls of the banquet hall, making the columns and ceilings sparkle. Light-footed servants carried silver platters back and forth from the kitchens, dripping with juices from lamb, boar, goose, and rarer creatures known only to the Asgardians. The robust crowd was growing more uncouth as the hours dwindled. Their voices became louder as they boasted of their accomplishments--no doubt embellished--to anyone who passed within hearing distance. Their faces flushed with drink, and bawdy songs took the place of celebratory ballads.

Wanda Maximoff wove and ducked her way between them clutching a tray of empty goblets like a lifeline. She nudged open the swinging kitchen door with a hip and unloaded her burden to pick up another--honey-glazed fruits arranged in a pyramid shape--and paused to catch her breath.

“Another skin of mead,” she told the red-faced cook, who was turning a spit over the fire. “For Volstagg. And he wants more smoked duck hearts as well.”

“For mercy’s sake!” said the cook. “He’ll have the pantry bare by sunrise.”

“Yes ma’am,” said Wanda; she could hardy disagree.

“What a fine time for the prince to go on one of his Midgard adventures.” The cook shook her head in annoyance. “He’s the only one who can talk sense into that man.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Thor was getting harder to keep track of these days. Wanda had met him once. Back in her old life, where she had been a hero. That world was so far away now. It was getting harder and harder to believe in, or even remember.

“He ought to be here,” the cook continued. “As a guest of honor. It’s him we have to thank, after all. He’s the one who saw the bastard die. He could tell us how it happened.” The cook’s eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Did he suffer, I wonder? I hope so. It would serve him right after all the pain he’s caused.”

“Maybe Thor doesn’t see the death of his only brother as something to celebrate, ma’am.” Wanda’s voice came out sharper than she meant it to. Her face felt hot, and magic itched at her fingertips. It wasn’t the cook’s fault. No one here knew who she really was. The ache she’d felt when Pietro was taken from her, like her heart had been ripped in two, still hadn’t fully healed. She didn’t expect it ever would.

She knew Thor had never been as close to Loki as she’d been to her own brother. But a bond like that, no matter how strained, left a mark on one’s soul. It was callous of the cook to gloat on the family’s sorrow. This whole celebration was cruel.

“Mind your tongue, missy,” was the cook’s reply. She nodded at the fruit tray in Wanda’s arms. “Now take that back to the hall before the flies carry it away. And tell Volstagg his mead’s on its way.”

“Yes ma’am.” Wanda dipped her head and followed her orders. That was the easiest way to cope. Most things were easier here in Asgard. Rather, what passed for Asgard in this elaborate non-reality. The speech patterns, style of dress, and ancient traditions of the gods were all so formal and old-fashioned, she could pretend there was nothing wrong here. It was less jarring than hearing the Black Widow call Captain Rogers “Sir,” and watching the old S.H.I.E.L.D. agents wave swords around like extras in a gladiator movie.

No one else suspected a thing. At least, no one had mentioned it. Wanda could see the seams of the illusion if she looked close enough, but not the real world lurking beneath. It was a masterful job. She had a pretty good idea of who was behind this charade. She had been helping it along, in her own way. Dreams could be much more real than illusions, if you knew the dreamers well enough. But why put the ruse together in the first place?

The evening went on, a welcome distraction to Wanda’s troubled thoughts, and the revelers finally thinned out. By the time they were scrubbing the tables clean and polishing the silver, Wanda’s nerves had settled. She returned to the ravaged kitchen to find the cook sighing at all the empty shelves. Most of the other servants had gone to bed by now. There wasn’t much left to do but clean up.

“Go on, ma’am,” said Wanda. “I can handle this on my own. You must be exhausted.”

“And you aren’t?” the cook asked, but she was already hanging up her apron. “Don’t forget to lock up when you leave. And hide what’s left of the spirits, otherwise we’ll have nothing to serve tomorrow.”

“I rather think they’ll still be sleeping this night off by then,” said Wanda. “Of course, one never knows.”

The cook laughed. “That’s the truth. You’re a good girl. Sleep well when you get to it.”

“I always do, ma’am.”

At long, long last, the cook went out, and Wanda was alone. She closed the door, rolled up her sleeves, and held out her hands. Power surged through her from her toes to her fingertips. It was getting easier now, as natural and easy as breathing. Her skin glowed red at the veins, and swirling energy surrounded her.

There was a mud ware bowl in the middle of the table. Wanda reached out with her mind, felt its weight and cradled it. Guiding it with her hands, she lifted it into midair. Tendrils of scarlet light wrapped around it, carrying it up to the top shelves that Wanda couldn’t reach without a stepladder, and laid it gently down.

It was a simple maneuver for Wanda. Way below the extent of her abilities. She had once stopped a runaway train off its tracks. She had ripped the mechanical heart out of a murderous automaton. She had bested the Black Widow--catching her off-guard, but still. Moving an empty bowl from a table to a shelf was nothing.

But it felt . . . odd. Wrong, like something was missing. Her powers were fuzzy around the edges here. This whole world felt like that. Surely someone else had noticed. But without being certain, she had no idea how to--

“Pardon my intrusion.”

The voice of the stranger so startled Wanda that she actually jumped. She spun around and snatched her hands into fists, stifling the red light as she turned to the door.

“Forgive me,” said the intruder. “I didn’t mean to alarm you. It’s just that I’ve been traveling all night, and wanted to see if there’s a bed to spare.”

A handful of details--dusty traveling cloak, mud-caked boots, disheveled hair and beard--arranged themselves around the figure at the door. All of them just a little too bright at the edges. Like Wanda’s experiment with the bowl, the man had a flicker of unreality to him.

“You’re in the wrong place entirely,” said Wanda, eyes narrowed. “The guest quarters are at the other end of the palace.”

“Oh dear.” The stranger chuckled to himself. “In that case, just a brandy for me, if it’s not too much trouble.” He had a friendly smile, but his eyes were sharp, and focused, like a hunter’s.

“Not at all,” said Wanda. “Come inside and get warm.”

The cook fire was low, but still crackling. The stranger swept back his hood and pulled off his gloves. He held his bare hands up to the sputtering flames.

“Thank you,” he said.

Wanda watched him carefully as she took the brandy out of the cupboard and found a clean glass. “You haven’t been waiting long, I hope?”

“Mm. A little while, but don’t worry about that. I’m a very patient man.”

 _I bet you are,_ thought Wanda shrewdly. She came to the fire side. “Does your life require much patience?” she asked.

She met his eyes when she handed him his drink. His fingers brushed hers briefly when he took it. The hunter’s eyes flashed.

“Let’s just say it can take a long time before I see results.” He downed the contents of the cup without breaking his gaze. “Sir.”

Wanda lifted her eyebrows.

“Ma’am this and ma’am that for the cook, but no ‘sir’ or ‘milord’ for me?”

It was as perfect a confession as Wanda could have hoped for. Even with his careful plotting and the effort he’d clearly put into this illusion, there was no way he could put aside his pride.

“You’ve been watching me a long time,” she said lightly.

“Long enough to know you’re no kitchen maid. I should report you to the king.”

Wanda grinned. “Thaddeus Ross is no king. And you’re no weary traveller. Are you, Loki Laufeyson?”

The sharp eyes burned cold. He stepped closer to her and let the disguise fall away. The dust evaporated from the traveling cloak, and it changed to a bright emerald green color. The beard faded away leaving smooth, ice-white skin, and the dark hair lengthened. Strangely, the lines of his princely regalia kept shifting. It was another disguise. If Wanda peered closely enough, she could see a simple green tunic beneath the form-fitting leather, and his hair was matted and tangled. Dark circles showed under his eyes. He looked as if he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“Very clever,” said the ruined prince. “What do you think your calculations will buy you, I wonder?”

“I never believed you were dead,” said Wanda, choosing her words carefully. The wounded pride of a bloodthirsty god was a dangerous thing to have uncovered. The other Avengers had told her stories about Loki’s actions on Earth and in Asgard. She didn’t want to make him angry too quickly. “I just needed to see for myself.”

“Indeed,” said Loki. “I guessed as much. And you don’t approve of this so-called celebration, I noticed.” He gestured to the door, indicating the banquet hall and everything that had happened that night. “That’s one reason you’re still standing. So tell, me little witch: why play along? Why not tell the Captain and the rest of your comrades what’s really going on here?”

Wanda shrugged. “Curiosity. I wanted to know why you did it. Why go to all this trouble? Everyone thinks you’re gone. Surely it’s safer for you to let them keep believing it. Why put yourself at risk like this?”

His thin mouth twitched into something that was almost a smile. “Curiosity,” he said, throwing her own half-truth back at her. “Boredom. I suppose you know I was imprisoned for some time before my noble sacrifice. I needed some way to pass the time.” He moved around the room as he talked, picking up bits of flatware, running his long fingers over the tables and cabinets. He was handsome, in a sly, feline sort of way. The other Avengers had somehow failed to mention that. “I did a lot of reading. Mostly I wanted to know more about Earth’s Mightiest Heroes, as they call themselves. I underestimated them before. They expanded their ranks in my absence. A man with wings, a man who can walk up walls, a man with a scrambled memory and a metal arm . . . and you.” He finished his perambulation around the room, and stopped in front of Wanda. He reached out and lifted her chin with a finger. “You started out their enemy, didn’t you?”

His touch sent a shiver through her. Logically, Wanda knew they were lightyears apart. Wherever “here” was, it was only a dream--an illusion. They couldn’t be touching. Not really. Still, she had to force her voice to be steady when she met his eyes. “So many things happened after you left. We had to choose sides, and . . . mine lost. I’m in an underwater prison right now.”

“And in this world, that became banishment,” Loki murmured. “Interesting. . .”

“Everything’s different here, but some of the details are missing. I can help fill in the gaps.” Wanda was talking faster, now that she’d come to the critical moment. “You can make them see what you want, but I’ve been inside their heads. I can make them believe it.”

Loki shook his head. “And why would you do that?”

“It’s like you said: it can take a long time to see results. And I’ve been waiting years. Since my brother. . .”

“Was killed,” Loki finished for her, sighing with disappointment. “So it’s sentiment that’s kept you going. How quaint.”

“Was it sentiment that made you go to the dark world when Frigga died?”

His eyes flashed. “Careful, child.”

But she kept pushing. “Thor gave you a chance to take revenge, and you took it. That’s all I want. Let me help you, and I can take that chance.”

“For revenge? Against what? Ultron was destroyed.”

“But not the one who made him.”

The room went very still. Loki stared at her, his face stony, as if seeing her for the first time. “You devious little thing,” he said approvingly. He held his hand out to her; she took it. A furred, scarlet cloak materialized around her shoulders, and they were suddenly on the garden path outside the palace. “Walk with me. We have much more to talk about.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot twist! I was debating whether this is the right place to put it. It's tricky figuring out how much to reveal and when. Hope it works for y'all!


End file.
